


Teenage Runaways

by listentotheink



Category: One Direction
Genre: M/M, Unsigned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:59:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentotheink/pseuds/listentotheink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a drunken comment that brought them all together. The “let’s form a band” that Harry had slurred between shots after he finished his song on the stage. Louis had clapped his shoulder. “That’s a brilliant fucking idea, Curly” because Louis couldn’t seem to remember his name no matter how many times he had repeated it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teenage Runaways

They meet in a bar. It’s smoky and dim and Zayn is knocking back a fifth of whiskey, tells Harry it’s to calm the nerves before he goes on stage. Harry just nods, replies that he knows the feeling and Zayn looks him over with questioning eyes.

“Seventh.” he says. “I’m on stage seventh.”

“Sixth.” Zayn says.

The boy on the stage hits a powerful note and the small crowd that’s not drunk and actually paying attention claps.

(“Pretentious pricks” a boy called Louis, who Harry finds to be unbelievably attractive, says. “Who the fuck comes to a pub and doesn’t drink? That’s unnatural, that.”)

Louis is fifth, and a lad named Niall is on stage next, then some group called FanFare, a girl called Caroline, and then Louis, Zayn and Harry. But for now, drinking seems to be the answer to a question that was never posed.

 

Harry’s from Cheshire. One of the tiny towns that make it up. Zayn is from Yorkshire, Bradford, to make it more specific. Niall is from Ireland. What he’s doing in England, Harry has no idea. Liam is from West Midlands, Wolverhampton. And Louis is also from Yorkshire. Doncaster, “home of the shite that is the Rovers FC.”

They’re drinking beers around a campfire at Harry’s stepdad’s. Shooting the shit, talking about how they ended up in London in the first place. Louis says he felt it was the only way he could make it. Liam says the same, said he hoped that someday a producer would hear him and sign him. Zayn says he was tired of working at his family’s restaurant. Niall was going to go to Uni. Harry was just looking for something, anything to make him feel small, make him feel alive again.

It was a drunken comment that brought them all together. The “let’s form a band” that Harry had slurred between shots after he finished his song on the stage. Louis had clapped his shoulder. “That’s a brilliant fucking idea, Curly” because Louis couldn’t seem to remember his name no matter how many times he had repeated it.

(But that’s okay because Louis can get away with anything and Harry’s only known him for five shots).

Zayn, Niall and Liam agree, write their numbers down onto a napkin. It’s so shaky that Harry can barely read them the next morning to send out a group message. But he got them all right because here they are. Drinking and talking and laughing just like they’re all old mates, and it’s nice. Because they’ve all been lonely their whole lives. And to have four other lonely people drowns the sorrow of it out.

“Curly plays the guitar.” Louis says. Harry’s sure that Louis knows his name by now, but just prefers to call him Curly (and still, even though a month has passed since they’d met, Harry doesn’t mind). “Curly and Irish. Look like guitar players, yeah?”

“It helps that we play guitar as well, doesn’t it?” Niall says, drily.

“Exactly!” Louis returns. Harry laughs. Liam and Zayn exchange a look. They’ve picked up on it already and that scared Harry. That people can read him so openly so he decides right then he needs to be careful.

“I’ll play keys.” Liam says.

“Bass.” Louis says with a burp. This time Harry holds back a laugh, looks at Liam and Zayn. Louis throws his arm around Harry’s shoulders, ruffles his curls. “That leaves Zayn on drums.”

“One Direction.” Harry says. “We’ll call ourselves One Direction.”

 

They get a shitty flat in London, all five of them live together to save money. It costs them about £350 a month. Split into five that’s £70 each. They can make that, easily. At least that’s what they think. There’s two bedrooms and a really squishy couch in the common room. A shitty little kitchen, which Harry claims as his, tells the boys he’ll be doing all the cooking because they’re not living off takeaway.

Louis demands a bed. Niall says he’ll take the couch. Zayn, Liam and Harry all want beds, too. So they bunk off together. Draw straws for who’s sharing with who, and who gets what room. Zayn and Liam get the room with two twin beds. Harry and Louis get the room with a queen sized, one chest of drawers and one closet.

The first night, they all don’t really know what they’re going to do. So they sit around the common room, play their instruments, write a song. Nothing they’ll ever record, but a song nonetheless. They break up at half two, and Harry follows the feathery haired Louis to their bedroom. He’s never shared a bed before. So he’s not quite sure how it works.

“You’re big spoon.” Louis says, as if that’s all it’s going to take to explain this to Harry. Harry just nods, and the smaller boy curls into his chest.

They lay awake there for another two hours, and it becomes routine. They always bunk off earlier than the rest, stay up and chat for hours. Sometimes until they see the sun rise. Other times they drift off in the middle of a story. Either way, Harry thinks he can definitely get used to it.

 

It’s not easy for a while, with the five of them sharing a flat. It’s crowded and messy and sometimes Harry wishes he could just go home to get five minutes of peace. But they’re together and they’re writing a song a night and telling Zayn off when he oversleeps for his seven am shift at the cafe down the block. And Harry plays albums from hipster bands that he finds in the £2 bin at the record store he works at.

If it’s god-awful, the boys “forget” to order him takeaway for dinner and he walks the two blocks to Nando’s. Sometimes, though, Louis accompanies him because he “can’t stand to see my cheeky chappy off by his lonesome”.

That’s their prime bonding time, that is. When they’re alone on the busy side streets of London, avoiding tourists and dickheads who stand on a bucket with a Bible and scream “you’re all going to hell!” at the top of their voices until someone stops and he talks to them about “being saved”.

They also scout gigs when they’re alone together. They become their management, and soon they’re playing shitty clubs once a week. It’s not the best scene, and Harry and Niall both get hit on more than once a night. Louis just coughs, puts a protective arm around Harry’s waist.

Then they start blowing each other in the bathrooms while the other lads get completely bladdered. But Harry can’t say he minds. He’d rather leave with the stench of a bathroom blow job than alcohol on his breath any day.

They put every cent they earn in the bank. Every pound counts.

 

They know it’s serious when Liam turns up at the flat, grinning from ear to ear, his hands behind his back.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve done.” he says. Niall just tosses a football over his head, to focused on the Derby match to care. Zayn grunts in half- interest while Louis keeps playing with Harry’s curls. Harry’s the only one to even pretend to be interested when really, he’s more focused on the way Louis’ small fingers are running through his hair.

“Go on, then. Bloody hell.” Harry says. Liam takes his hands out from behind his back, tosses them each a manila envelope.

“Open it, you ungrateful shits.” he mutters. Harry furs his brows and sits up, opens the envelope.

There’s a list of dates, and airline tickets.

“Holy fucking shit.” Louis breathes.

 

They start their trek across America in a van they dub Bertha because what else do you name a van, really. And she’s not much, but she’s going to be home to them for a year. Fifty two weeks. Fifty States, three shows a week in the worst venues they could even imagine but it’s okay. They’re together and it’s a massive lads holiday. And they sell copies of their EP for five dollars and sometimes. Sometimes they leave the venue with less copies than they showed up with.

In Maine, Louis insists they try the lobster.

(“Come on, lads! It’s like. A thing here. You go to Maine, and you try the lobster!”

“How the fuck do you even know that?” Zayn says.

“Google, duh.” Louis says. “I’ve picked something from every state that we have to do!”

“And what if we don’t want to?” Liam asks. He’s got the stereo in Bertha cranked to almost full volume, listening to Jay-Z or some shit.

“Then you’re out the band.” Louis says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Harry rolls his eys.”

That’s how they find out Niall is allergic to shell food, and that health care in America isn’t free.

And Harry has to listen to him cry all the way to New Hampshire because he’s “found a food he can’t eat. He can’t believe he’s found a food he can’t eat.”

 

In New York, Louis whispers “boyfriend” in the quiet of the van as Harry comes all over his hand with a gentle gasp.

“Fucking finally.” Niall mutters from the bench seat behind them. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

 

In Florida, they suck it up and pay the eighty five dollars a piece to go to Harry Potter World at Universal. They’re only going to be there once, Louis says. They might as well do it right.

They’re standing in line for the ride in the castle, and Louis is squeezing Harry’s hand when Harry gets a tap on the shoulder. He turns and there’s a girl standing there, looking nervous.

“Are you Harry Styles?” she asks. Harry furs his brows and nods, because how the fuck does she know his name? “I knew it was you! You played a gig in Raleigh last week and my cousin met you. She sent me a picture and she shared your EP with me over the computer. You guys are like, insanely good.”

“Oh, well. Thank you.” Harry says. By now the other lads have listened in and people are cutting them in line. But none of them care because they’ve found a fan. Someone who actually likes them. And. What?

“I’m coming to your gig in Orlando tonight.” she says, and she’s nearly shaking with excitement at this point. “I can’t wait to hear you guys play.”

They take a picture with her and Louis is completely silent until she walks away.

“Well that just fucking happened.” He says in a breath. And then the five of them tackle each other because, fuck. They’re getting their name out there and that’s all they really wanted.

 

In Wisconsin, they buy cheese hats. In Minnesota they go to Walnut Grove.

(“Mum used to make me watch Little House.” Niall says. “We’re going.”)

In Iowa they try roasted sweet corn, and they start recognizing people who come out to their shows. Three people have followed them across the midwest. Two of them have made t-shirts. Liam can only say how sick the shirts are and how he wishes they had money to have them printed.

The girl hands them fifty dollars. The guy she is with hands them twenty five. They insist that they can’t take it, but the guy tells them that he knows they’ll be successful someday, even though they shower at truck stops and can’t afford more than fast food right now.

They make friends, invite them for drinks, get hammered. Promise to text and call whenever they can. And they park the van in a random field and climb to the top of the van.

“How about that.” Louis says, passing a spliff between the five of them. Harry takes a long drag. “How afuckingbout that.”

“I think we’re gonna make it.” Niall says, taking the joint.

“Sell out arenas like the big-boys.” Zayn says, hitting Niall in the shoulder. “Justin Bieber or some shit.”

“Rolling Stones.” Harry says, shaking his head. “Way better.”

“What have you got against Bieber?” Liam says, in mock offence. “He’s arguably the most famous person on the planet. I want to sell out Wembly and Croke Park and the O2.”

“One of these things just doesn’t belong here.” Louis says, concealing a mad giggle in Harry’s shoulder.

“Oh for fuck sake you know what I mean.” Liam says with a fond smile.

“Someday we’ll get there, mate.” Zayn says. “Someday.”

 

When they make it to LA, they’ve made twitters and each have nearly one thousand followers tweeting at them about their music and an album and where their next gig is going to be, and it’s actually unreal. People want to listen to them, people like what they have to play and that’s something they never thought would happen and it’s the best feeling in the world.

It’s the same when they get back to England. Fans are begging for new material, for anything. And they’ve booked a gig at a small concert hall in South London, and they get the attention of the guy who owns the Bowery Ballroom in New York City. He says he’ll pay them five thousand pounds to play a show there. And that’s where Ed Sheeran started playing in America so they jump at the chance.

 

Before they leave for their two shows at Bowery, and their small New England tour they have booked, they play one last show at the bar they met at. It feels almost like a welcome home, we’ll miss you, of sorts. But the crowd is electric and they play new material and someone from a label approaches them.

And really. It’s just the beginning.


End file.
